


A place called home

by Ariana (Ariana_El)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Himring, Maedhros understands, former prisoners, mistrust towards elves who escaped captivity, thralls of Morgoth - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2020-09-25 10:51:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20375554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariana_El/pseuds/Ariana
Summary: An escaped prisoner faces the mistrust of his kin and seeks a place that would accept him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I got a wonderful prompt on tumblr that went like this:  
"I love your writing style! Do you take prompts? If so, and if you like my idea, could you write a fic about an elf escaping from Morgoth and, as it says in the Silm, being mistrusted and driven away by his people. So he instead goes to Himring and joins Maedhros. I headcanon that this is how Maedhros had such a loyal following up to as late as and after the third kinslaying. Although his later actions were evil, he had given these elves a home and the trust that they couldn't find elsewhere."

The first time time Mistoron sees an elven village, he weeps. His bare feet are bleeding and the rugs he wears no longer provide any shelter save for the sorry excuse of preserving of what is left of his dignity. He stumbles time after time and the fair, clean faces blur in his bleary eyes.

It takes a lot to come to the smithy. The noise makes his blood freeze and everything screams in him to run away, to run and hide before the lash falls on his back once again. But the shackle rubs against his ever raw wrist and the chain he has to carry is heavy; heavier now that he finally sees free elves around him. His other wrist is still swollen, though it has probably started to heal already; that he cannot tell. He pulled and pulled until he managed to pull his hand through the shackle. The damage was a small price to pay for freedom.

The smith is a sturdy elf. He speaks little and asks no questions, but he agrees to remove the shackle. Mistoron shivers and sinks down on a bench, suddenly too weary to move, but then anxiety strikes once again. He has no means to pay him and he utters as much, afraid that he will be send away, but the smith just shrugs.

“I will not see any elf suffer these,” he answers simply and prepares his tools.

Mistoron does not remember the moment the chains fall on the floor. He’s too petrified to look and awaits the pain that will surely follow, and the next thing he recalls is the smith helping him sit; he has fallen from the bench. Mistoron obeys blindly, still half expecting the pain to come, but none of this happens. Finally he looks down at his hands and sees only abused skin. No chains, no shackles. He’s free. Really, truly free. He’s weak and hurt, but that matters not; the ache will fade, he knows it will.

The smith (Mistoron never learns his name) feeds and cloths him, but then he is firm as he points at the door.

“You cannot stay here. I trust you not.”

“Wha-,“ words die in his throat and Mistoron stares blankly, the warmth in his belly that the real meal provided suddenly turning into a sickening heaviness. He cannot bear the thought of going back alone into the wilderness, not when, not....

“I know not what evil will come after you or what calamity will fall upon as all because of you. Leave. Now.” There is steel in his voice and Mistoron backs away until he feels a wall behind his back. He knows the tone too well.

The smith realises how terrified his unwanted guest is and he softens a bit. He leaves for a moment, and when he returns, there is a sack in his arms.

“Leave,” he repeats and throws the pack to Mistoron. Petrified as he is, he fails to catch it and it falls on the floor. “It’s just some food. You can take it,” the smith explains and picks the package. He offers it again and this time Mistoron takes it with his shaking hands.

“Now leave.”

Mistoron flees.

Every village he passes reacts in a similar manner. Those who take pity on him offer him some food, but more often than not he is just chased away. Even when he hides his wrists in his sleeves and cuts his matted hair short, they always recognise a prisoner and shut their doors. Mistoron goes on, wondering what kind of Morgoth’s curse is following him, one that prevents him from finding rest and safety among his people. He wanted to go home; now he fears he will be treated the same way by people he knows and he doesn’t think he can bear it.

“The only one crazy enough to take in someone like you is the Noldorin Prince Maedhros, if you’ve heard about him,” someone calls after Mistoron when he turns to leave yet another village.

He has heard about him; of course he has. Those who dwelt in the Pits of Angband whispered stories of those like him; the Noldorin king who had been rescued and who lived high up North. Of those who managed to escape the misery and returned to the world of living. What they never spoke of was the fact that their own kin refused to know them once they were lucky enough to escape.

It s a long journey, but Mistoron has already learned that his own kin would not have him back, no matter where, so he turns north. He travels mostly at nights. After having spent so much time in the dungeons, his eyes cannot accustom to light easily. He was born under the sun and he loved the warm glow it provided, yet now too much of that light makes his eyes tear and hurt. It is slowly getting better as he carries on with his journey, but it is just one more pain to add to his misery.

There is one more reason he chooses to travel at night. The warm hours of the day and the sun that pains his eyes, provide also some illusion of safety, allow him to find a place to hide and rest before journeying on, if these moments of vigilant napping can even be called so. Mistoron knows the foul servants of Morgoth dread the sun, so he shuts his eyes, covers his head and sleeps in the brightest spots he can find.

Finally the fortress at the top of Himring hill appears before his eyes. It looks strong and mighty, if a bit grim. But it is not dark-grim Mistoron is used to. The fortress screams defiance and as he climbs up the hill, he wishes he was already within its strong walls.

He asks a guard by the gate to see Lord Maedhros and his heart warms in hope as the soldier nods instead of telling him off. He calls someone to take his place and leads Mistoron up without asking any questions. They reach the walls and head to the nearest post.

“My lord,” the guard calls and the elf keeping watch turns around. He’s incredibly tall, with long, copper braid falling down his back. The silver circlet on his forehead glimmers in the sun, as does the eight-pointed star with crimson jewel holding his cloak. His face wears echo of old scars; they are almost invisible, nevertheless for someone like Mistoron they are hard to miss. And his eyes... Mistoron almost looks away.

The elf casts one long look at him and nods slightly to the guard. “What is your name?” He asks, his voice is calm and inviting.

“Mistoron.” It is the first time someone cares enough to ask him that question.

“I’m Maedhros Feanorion.”The Lord needs not to introduce himself, yet he does. He looks at the guard and waves his hand dismissively. “Thank you, Tuilindondil. Leave us.” The elf makes himself scarce and Maedhros points at the narrow platform running along the walls. “Walk with me, Mistoron.”

So far no one wished to deal with him, alone nor in a group. Mistoron fights down the hope that has been rising in him with each step he took to climb those walls. It can still go wrong. He follows the Noldorin Prince along the walls. No one wished to leave him unguarded, yet Maedhros does not even turn around to see if his guest is following. Mistoron envies him. _He_ cannot stand anyone behind his back.

“I know why you sought me,” Maedhros says suddenly and he stops. He looks north and as Mistoron follows his gaze, he sees the cruel tops of mountains encircling Angband. “I want to hear your story.”

At first he finds no words, but once he starts talking, he cannot stop. The tight knot in his chest seem to loosen with each word he spits out. The lord listens as Mistoron recalls the dread of captivity, then the escape and the bitter disappointment that awaited him among his kin. He leaves out a lot, but he feels like Maedhros can see right through his story and easily fill in the untold details.

“I was hoping you could find my service useful somehow, my lord,” Mistoron utters finally and the knot tightens again. There. He has said it. Now it’s all up to the Noldorin Prince.

Maedhros watches him for a long time and his weird, blazing eyes seem to see pierce him. Mistoron waits, his heart racing in his chest.

Finally, the lord speaks. “It is a hard post, Mistoron. It’s cold in here and the Enemy is close. You’re welcome to stay, though it may not be easy. But I can promise you one thing,” his eyes suddenly glow with cold fury. “I will never allow any of you to return there.” The blazing eyes turn north towards the grim walls of Thangorodrim. “The Enemy will never lay his hands again on any of us.”

This ‘us’ is all Mistoron needs. He sinks on his knees and binds his fate to that strange Noldorin prince. And for the first time in what seems like eternity, he feels safe.

Lord Maedhros offers him a hand and helps him up. The smile he gives is astonishingly gentle for one so scarred and with such a reputation.

“Welcome home,” he says softly. "I’ll show you the fortress and have someone explain you our customs, but this can wait. Now, I want you to go to the healers and ask for Alcarino*. Tell him I sent you. He will know how to help you.”

Mistoron nods and bows. Here, at this secluded hill, he’s finally home.

*Alcarino is my OC healer who took care of Maedhros after Thangorodrim and then remained as his personal healer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite my recent lack of updates, I am not dead. The past month or so was crazy and I am only now returning to writing. Of all my WIPs, I didn't expect my OCs to start talking, but since they did, I let them. i wrote most of it between two parts of the most important exam in my work career.

Mistoron waits for the healer like he was told and marvels at the amount of credit and trust he's given. The guard Lord Maedhros called led him to the healer, but as they didn't find him in his study, he simply left him there and went to fetch Alcarino.

The room is warm and spacious, with wooden cupboards covering two walls. and high windows facing the inner yard. Mistoron stops to admire delicate carvings and ornaments. He closes his eyes and inhales deep, expecting the scent of wood, but the furniture is too old. The study smells of herbs which are hanging by the ceiling, drying.

The doors open and Mistoron turns on his heel, ready to step back if needed. Instead, he's met with a warm smile.

"Mistoron, right? Welcome."

The elf is old and his eyes bear the same strange light he has seen in the eyes of the Noldor, yet they are kind and his smile is gentle. He is taller than Mistoron, like many other Noldor, and he keeps his black hair braided away from his face in a way that is both practical and elegant. He places a tray full of food on a huge oaken desk and points at the chair at the other side.

"I'm Alcarino.” He speaks flawless Sindarin and seems calm, as if he played a host to an escaped prisoner every other day. "Please, suit yourself," the healer gestures at the food. He doesn't have to ask twice.

Mistoron swallows the first slice of roasted venison without really tasting it. He ran out of provisions two days prior and while he has grown used to very little nourishment, the smell and the warmth make his mouth water. He registers with delirious delight that there are beans in a thick sauce and swallows a few spoons, his host all but forgotten.

"Not so fast," Alcarino warns him suddenly and Mistoron stops. He puts down the plate with effort, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. The food is delicious. And he is _hungry_.

The healer seems to understand. "You will make yourself ill," he says softly and fills a mug with some liquid Mistoron cannot identify. "Drink, slowly."

Mistoron obeys. The scent of herbs is strong, but the drink is tasty. Remembering the healer’s advice, he takes small sips.

"Did you travel long?"

Mistoron stares for a moment, his mind blank. Is it a test? His heart races. The lord said he could stay, but... "I... I don't know," he utters finally. "I didn't count days and I didn't know the way."

"That is alright. I just wish to know as much of your state as possible," Alcarino explains. "I can see you need rest and nourishment, but you will recover faster if I know how to aid you."

"Oh..." Mistoron doesn't really know what to say. He's too overwhelmed by the mere fact that he's sitting in a warm study, with a hot meal and in a company of someone who wishes to speak with him. He looks down at the plate he was given and fights the urge to wolf down the food to the very last bit. The healer is probably right. No one is going to take the food away from him.

Alcarino picks some meat from the plates as well and pours himself a glass of wine. "There is no need to rush, though the sooner I know what ails you, the sooner I will be able to help." He has not moved from his place, he keeps his distance and Mistoron is grateful. Part of him desperately wants to trust this man, yet he's still too afraid of the possible rejection. He would not bear being sent away again and what if they find him useless and...

"What was your profession?" The question catches him off-guard, so casual it sounds.

"I was a carpenter, but..." Mistoron looks down at his hands and clutches his damaged wrist hidden in the sleeve. It has healed badly during his journey and the movements are much limited. "I doubt I will be able to..."

Alcarino doesn't push him nor does he make a move. He waits patiently until Mistoron slowly uncovers his wrist and reaches out. The healer's fingers are warm as he leans over the desk and wraps them around the injured limb.

"If it hurts or if you wish me to stop, just tell me."

At first Mistoron fears the touch, yet he finds it gentle if a bit unpleasant."It's useless, isn't it," he says bitterly. "I didn't know how to tend to it and no one-" he drops. There is no point in reminiscing those who didn't want to help him. The Noldo here _is_ trying to help.

"It won't be, once we let it heal properly." Alcarino looks up, his fingers still prodding at the joint.

Mistoron winces as the wrist begins to throb. The instincts kick in and he pulls his hand from the grasp before he can help it.

"What I am about suggest will not be pleasant, I'm afraid." Alcarino doesn't seem to notice how Mistoron backs away, at least as much as the chair allows him. "The bones in your wrist were broken, but they are not yet fully healed. If I break and reset them, they are likely to heal properly and you should regain mobility."

"Oh." Mistoron clutches his now aching wrist protectively and shudders at the idea of inflicting more pain purposely. He can see the logic behind the healer’s reasoning, but it doesn’t make him any less afraid. For some time, he stares blankly at his plate. All the appetite is gone. He feels sick and it has nothing to do with how much he has eaten.

“It is your choice to let me do that.” Alcarino says after a while. When Mistoron looks up, he meets his grey eyes, full of compassion. “It doesn’t have to be today. I will insist on doing it as soon as possible, but know that I will not force you against your will.”

“And if I refuse?” Mistoron dares to ask.

“Then I will respect it,” Alcarino promises. “I know right now you probably don’t want me to touch you at all, but you will soon find the limitations annoying and it will bother you. And it will be harder to reverse the damage.” He stands up and opens one of the numerous cupboards. Having retrieved two jars, he turns back to his guest. “I have means to put you into deep sleep and reduce the pain, and make you as comfortable as possible before I start. Think of it and we will talk tomorrow. Now I guess you could do with a good bath while I can have a look at you. Then we’ll see if someone has prepared you some place to sleep. How’s that?”

Mistoron nods, only now realising that washing all the grime from the journey sounds like a great idea. He’s already warm and half asleep as he follows the healer through the fortress. He misses half of what Alcarino is saying, but he clings to the promise he has made. The healer said he would not do anything without permission and Mistoron believes him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this story has officially gained the status of finished until proven otherwise. I have written another bit with Mistoron. He seems to come now and then and demands my attention. He's got Maedhros's approval, who am I to discuss?

**Part III**

"You should be more careful with that stranger."

Alcarino turned and saw a guard still watching the door suspiciously, his hand on the sword grip. Oelon was one of the Sindar who had decided to join Maedhros. Never had Alcarino seen him so wary and displeased, though their acquaintance was rather brief.

"Mistoron?" Alcarino feigned mild surprise, even as he already suspected where this was going to lead. "I don't think he would have the strength to actually do something, least of all intentionally. He's famished and worn out."

"He may be a spy." Oelon puffed and folded his arms on his chest. "You know of his lot. It would be regretful to see you harmed. We all value your skill."

"Yet you don't seem to trust my abilities," Alcarino observed coldly. "Lord Maedhros hasn't deemed any company necessary, nor does he see Mistoron as a danger."

"The lord's judgement in that matter is biased and you know it."

"Is it?" the voice behind Oelon was so cool it could freeze the air. "Why didn't you come to me to voice your concerns instead of bothering Alcarino?"

The Sinda turned on his heel and faced Maedhros, for it was he who had approached them so quietly. "I only mean...” Whatever he intended to add, the words seemed to stuck in his throat.

"Speak no more." Maedhros's eyes blazed brightly. "I have heard about these concerns. And I know Mistoron has already experienced the hospitality you speak of." He spat out the last words with disgust. "I will not have anyone call Himring uninviting. Everyone who wishes to dwell here is welcome to do so and to be a part of this fortress. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, my lord," Oelon bowed his head, but mistrust did not leave his features. Alcarino hoped he would wise enough not to voice his unfounded doubts again.

***

But the matter returned and sooner than Alcarino anticipated. The evening had not yet come when Oelon reported that Mistoron was missing from his room. He dared not vocalize his doubts in front of Maedhros again, but he had no such trouble talking to the healer.

"I told you! It wasn't wise or safe to let him move freely around the fortress and now he's gone somewhere!"

Alcarino sighed inwardly. He believed when Oelon claimed that their new companion was not in the room he had been offered. He also doubted Maedhros would act rashly towards a former prisoner of Morgoth, more likely towards Oelon, yet he wished to be present nonetheless, so he followed the guard to the great hall, where Maedhros was likely to be found among his people at this time of day.

As they entered, Alcarino looked around. There were fewer elves than he expected, and the lord was absent as well, so perhaps there was some additional training or meeting he wasn't aware of. Yet there was no need to disturb Maedhros, whatever he was doing.

"Do you really regard Mistoron as a threat?" Alcarino asked Oelon and pointed to the right.

There, curled on one of the benches standing alongside the wall opposite to the windows facing the inner yard, slept their missing guest. Whatever had chased him from his room, clearly had not got him here, as he seemed to be at peace. He was wearing the fresh clothes he had been given, but as he slept, he kept what little he possessed pressed against his chest.

“I wouldn’t disturb the lord if I were you,” said Alcarino. “And let Mistoron stay wherever he pleases, since he is not our prisoner.”

***

Alcarino settled for making sure their guest was well fed and his wounds and sores tended to, but otherwise kept his distance and watched him from afar. Mistoron rarely hid within the walls of the room he was given. Most often he could be found in the hall. He mentioned briefly that the bustle of normal life around him made him feel safe and most of the Noldor didn’t mind him joining them if he wished. Alcarino asked no questions and did not return to the matter of resetting his hand.

On the third day it was Mistoron who sought him out. He came to have his wounds checked, then hovered as the healer cleaned his tools.

"My hands yearn to pick the tools and for once make something of my choosing," he blurted finally and stopped as abruptly as he began, looking at Alcarino with sudden fear what his outburst would bring.

But the healer nodded in acknowledgement. "For that you will have to wait till you are healed.”

Bracing himself, Mistoron looked up. “Do it. If it is as you say, please fix my hand.”

“Thank you,” Alcarino offered him a gentle smile. “Is there anything you would like to know beforehand?”

Mistoron opened his mouth, but the words seemed to have left him. “You... You said you would put me to sleep?” He asked finally. “That I will not...”

“You will not be awake. You will sleep for several hours afterwards,” explained Alcarino and motioned Mistoron to sit back again. “Your hand will probably bother you for the next few days, until the swelling goes down, but I have means to help. You will not be left alone in this.”

Sinking in the offered chair, Mistoron heard little of what the healer said later as he explained the details of the surgery. There. He did it. He would let this strange Noldo touch... hurt him. The idea paralysed him, though he tried to convince himself that the healer was right. He could probably still refuse and run away, but he had no one else to go and talk to. Nobody here was close to him, though the few he had made acquaintance with seemed to care about his wellbeing. And the only person who knew what he had experienced...

“If you ask him, he will come to assist me and stay,” the healer offered him a kind smile. “Lord Maedhros. If you want. He will understand.”

"No, no," Mistoron shook his head fervently. He wished not to bother the lord. "If only..." he stopped, a wave of shame forcing the words back down his throat.

"I cannot offer you what I don't know you need," Alcarino reminded him gently.

"I... CanIhavemorefoodfirst?" Eyes shut, he didn't dare as much as draw a breath, feeling his bluntness was too much.

But the healer was nothing but kind, though he shook his head in denial. "For what I am about to give you, it's best to have an empty stomach, lest you feel ill. But if you wish so, there will be food for you waiting when you wake.”

"I-I'm sorry.”

"There is no need. Please wait here for me.”

***

It went better than Mistoron expected. Just like the healer had promised, he remembered nothing from the surgery and woke in his own bed as the sun was already setting. Alcarino had given him medicines and left more food than necessary, but Mistoron didn’t feel like eating. He laid and rested, so a sudden knocking startled him.

"Enter," he called, wondering who wished to see him, since the healer had promised to come again in the morning.

The door opened.

"My lord-" Mistoron sat at once, ready to rise, but Maedhros motioned him to stay seated.

"I just wanted to see how you fare," he said, his flamed eyes examining the new member of his household. He had a scroll tucked under his right arm, which made Mistoron wonder whether he had come straight from some meeting.

"Oh, please," Mistoron awkwardly pointed at the only chair in the room and, despite earlier dismissal, he sat straight in bed.

The lord must have realised how imposing he was standing there, towering over Mistoron, for he sat casually, as if it was common of him to step into his people's quarters for a chat. "How do you feel?"

Mistoron blinked in surprise. "Umm... Confused," he admitted. He wasn't unwell and the freshly re‑broken hand didn't bother him, but his mind seemed foggy and some thoughts seemed to escape him before he managed to grasp them. He felt weak and Alcarino had warned him to be careful, since the procedure of re‑setting his hand had been taxing to his malnourished body, but otherwise he was doing far better than he had expected.

Maedhros glanced at the concoctions left by the healer and nodded in understanding. "Oh yes, these things tend to do that with your mind. It will pass. Meanwhile, if you feel up to it, I would like you to have a look at this." Maedhros unrolled the paper, which turned out to be a plan of a chamber. Mistoron moved closer to have a better view. "You said you were a carpenter and I have a commission for you. We need a set of chairs and matching shelves for my council room."

"Oh." What the lord spoke of was a representative place then, one where he probably met the King's emissaries and other important guests.

Seeing that he had Mistoron's attention now, Maedhros continued, his own interest visible. "I rarely have the pleasure of designing anything these days, but at least I sketched the room for you with vague ideas where I would like to have the new furniture placed. It desperately needs refreshing. I know you are not up to work yet, but I am curious to see your ideas."

"Of course, my lord," Mistoron uttered, overwhelmed by the amount of trust he was being given. The Lord did not even consider that Mistoron's work might not be to his taste. He seemed genuinely interested in possible new ideas and designs and Mistoron remembered what he had heard of Feanor his father and of the Noldor, as well as their love for crafts. The few times he had seen Maedhros so far, he had first and foremost been the Lord of Himring. Now it seemed their meeting was private and the lord allowed himself to enjoy the idea of designing and planning, even if he himself would not participate in the process of crafting.

"I believe you have met Istime," Maedhros continued. "She agreed to work with you, but also to show you our ways around here. She will join you when you are ready. Just don't overdo yourself. Alcarino is a good friend, but he is a better healer and can be stern for your best interest. It is wise to heed his advice." Maedhros left the sketches on the desk and stood up. "You are welcome to join us whenever you wish, if you feel up to it," he reminded Mistoron again.

“Thank you, my lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find it interesting to look at Maedhros through the eyes of other elves. it's a nice change from writing everything from his perspective.  
If I messed something, if you see a mistake or poorly chosen word, feel free to tell me, I'm not a child to get offended and I'm eager to correct errors.  
Thank you for reading.


End file.
